


The Gift

by alyxpoe



Series: The Youngest Holmes [2]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Leather, M/M, men having sex, men kissing, possibly Douglas just found a new kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:59:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Maaartiin…” Douglas groans and all thoughts about how no one has ever physically tried to eat him out of lusty passion disappear into the ether.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> This story happens a few weeks after Blood & Water ends. You don't have to have read that one for this to make sense, though it might help. It is kind of like a 'deleted scene' that I couldn't figure out where to place in the bigger story.

Douglas reaches behind his back and opens the front door of the house, the other hand occupied with Martin’s belt buckle. Martin’s fingers are unbuttoning Douglas’ white uniform shirt as his mouth is doing some incredible thing to Douglas’ left ear lobe. _Oh my god, was that a growl?_ He knows he should be absolutely exhausted after five days of flying from Winnipeg to Copenhagen; well, his brain knows that, but his body has yet to get the memo.

Martin steps forward as the door swings open and, with one leg strategically placed between both of Douglas’, half-drags, half-carries Douglas over the threshold with his arms around Douglas’ waist. Douglas is always impressed with the strength in Martin’s wiry body, but lifting _him_ up onto his toes is a new feat altogether. A highly arousing one to be sure, and the way his body responds to it surprises him completely: he hasn’t been _this_ hard since he was a teenager.

Douglas groans a lot more than he will ever admit out loud when Martin smashes him up against the nearest wall, his shirt gaping wide open to allow Martin’s teeth to graze over each nipple and down his sternum then back up again. Martin latches onto the big man’s collar bone and his hips grind against Douglas’ when Douglas finally slips a hand into the fly of Martin’s uniform trousers, running his fingers down Martin’s burning length to cup his balls firmly against his body.

“Want you now.” Martin grinds out between his teeth that are now clamped against the skin of Douglas’ neck.

It takes the first officer’s mind ten seconds to contemplate letting Martin shag him right here against the wall, and as much as he would thoroughly enjoy it, his back would never forgive him. They have a ten-hour flight out tomorrow and he does not want to spend the day with aching muscles, no matter the reason for it. Mostly. This thing that Martin is currently doing that involves divesting Douglas of his trousers and boxers in a single movement while kissing him like a drowning man offered his first cup of water in months almost changes his mind. All the stewardesses (and stewards) Douglas’ past is filled with…he moans into Martin’s mouth as Martin grabs his now almost-painfully hard erection and _pulls_ , his fingers slipping from the base to the head in one long stroke.

“Maaartiin…” Douglas groans and all thoughts about how no one has ever physically tried to _eat_ him out of lusty passion disappear into the ether.

Douglas’ brain bursts back online when Martin falls to his knees in front of him. Douglas grabs a handful of soft orange curls and hangs on tight. He positively enjoys the feel of Martin’s strong fingers digging into his buttocks, dragging him closer to his mouth. Who knew such a skinny person could be so orally fixated? That evening in London when Douglas took a chance-he never, ever saw this particular facet of Martin a possibility.

“Jesus!” Douglas has _never_ been turned into a puddle of mush this way by anyone. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the wall as a hot coil of tension begins in the base of his spine. “Martin,” he mumbles, hoping Martin can hear him. It would be beyond him to not warn his partner and let him choose and for a second it feels like… _yes_ …the wet velvet heat of Martin’s talented mouth is something holy, something that makes Douglas want to get down on his knees and fucking _worship_ …that mouth…there…tongue…yes, _right there…_ God, those plush lips…

Are gone.

Disoriented, Douglas places his now-empty palms against the wall to steady himself. He is breathing heavily and seeing little starbursts in the back of his eyes. When he opens them it is to find Martin standing with his back to the first officer, holding Douglas’ trousers out. Douglas can see that Martin is tugging his own trousers back up over his incredibly shapely ass and dizzily watches the interplay of muscles in Martin’s bare back and arms. Douglas does not miss the tension there, nor does he miss the way the skin on Martin’s shoulders has flushed deep red.

“Martin?” Douglas asks as he buttons his fly.

“Douglas, there is someone here.” Martin’s voice is tight but steady.

“Alright.” The first officer waits to see what Martin is going to do and fishes his mobile out of his pocket, thankful it had not fallen out when the captain yanked them off of him.

“Wait.” Martin’s hand closes around Douglas’ and squeezes. Douglas looks down into burning green crystals and nods. Martin kisses him, softly; Douglas moans again at the taste of himself on Martin’s lips. When the captain pulls back, Douglas hand slips off the nape of his neck where it seems to have ended up without any direct order from Douglas. A tiny hint of a smile plays across Martin’s lips, obviously not too concerned.

That smile hits Douglas right in the gut. He groans again. “Your brother, I presume?” The phone he is holding vibrates as it receives a text message.

Martin nods, seemingly not very angry for someone who was so keen a few minutes ago. Douglas shakes his head then checks his phone.

_Whatever the big git has done, I apologize._

There is a firm knock on the door and Douglas smiles. Never mind the interruptions; this is going to be fun. Douglas knows a broad grin is plastered across his face as he opens the door to a sheepish John Watson.

“Good evening.” John offers.

Douglas lets out a hearty laugh and opens the door wider. “Good afternoon, John, what brings you all the way out to Fitton?”

John steps into the hallway and Douglas notices that the doctor is carrying a paper shopping bag. “Something for Martin.” He says as he holds the bag up.

“You two couldn’t show up an hour from now?” Douglas says as he buttons up his shirt.

John cocks an eyebrow at him in amusement that says very clearly, _you know how he is_.

“Come on in.” Douglas gives John a shoulder slap and leads the way to the sitting room.

*

Sherlock takes one look at his baby brother from his perch on the back of Douglas’ cream-colored sofa and snorts. “Ah,” is all he says.

“Yeah, ah. How the hell did you…” Martin asks.

Sherlock points to the now-open window and the sunset beyond, looking a bit too smug for Martin’s liking.

“You know phoning would have been easier.” Martin crosses the room and drops to the cushions beside his brother, not even bothering to waste his breath saying anything about breaking and entering. He takes his shoes and socks off then reaches up and pulls Sherlock down next to him. Martin hugs him and Sherlock reciprocates.

“Awww… Look at that, a pilot and his pet detective.” Douglas says from the doorway. Beside him, John chuckles warmly, reveling in the way he can see Martin does not struggle to get right through Sherlock’s shields like a hot knife through butter.

Sherlock tries hard for a scowl that falls apart when Martin lets him go. He stretches his legs out in front of him, his feet underneath the low coffee table that is covered with a stack of flight manuals and what appears to be a thick volume of engine diagrams. “John, the bag.” He orders as he settles back against the couch with the thick tome in his hands.

Martin watches his brother as Sherlock pretends to be engrossed in the book. He shrugs and looks up to John. John hands him the bag. Martin plunges his hand into it and gasps like he has just gotten kissed by John Barrowman. His face flushes scarlet and he holds the bag out to John.

“I can’t, John, it’s too much.” John steps out of Martin’s reach.

“Yes, Martin, you will and it’s not.” Sherlock grumbles, his eyes on the book in his lap.

“Really?” Martin says in a quiet voice. He raises his hand to his mouth to begin worrying the cuticles.

Sherlock raises his head and locks eyes with his youngest sibling. He grasps Martin’s hand and pulls it away from his teeth. “Consider it a gift from Mycroft as well.”

“Mostly Mycroft.” John mutters so that only Douglas can hear him. Douglas shakes his head and grins. Sherlock’s eyes flick to John for a moment and he beams.

Having lost the battle, Martin stands up and places the bag on the couch. He pulls something out of it that is chocolate brown and handles it like it is the finest glass and wraps it very carefully around his shoulders. One hand reaches up to stroke the soft auburn lamb’s wool collar.

Douglas instantly recognizes it as a perfectly fitting twin of the bomber jacket John was wearing when they picked him up on the other side of the world. Martin always looks particularly ravishing, but seeing all those lean muscles flex underneath the leather…he looks so boyish with his bare feet but at the same time so damned _male…_ Douglas is waging a losing battle against the drool forming in his mouth. He is pulled closer to the captain without thinking.

When Martin turns his face up to Douglas, his emerald eyes are glossy with unshed tears and pride. The fire that has ebbed to a low burn at Douglas’ core returns in full force. He reaches up under the jacket, now warmed by Martin’s body, rests his hands against Martin’s back and pushes him forward. When their mouths meet the only thing in the world that exists is the two of them.

They completely miss the indignant squawk of a certain consulting detective as a certain ex-army doctor grabs his arm and drags him from the room. John calls out behind them as he closes the front door, “We’ll be back in a couple of hours!” He links his arm through Sherlock’s and wonders if Martin and Douglas even heard him.

“Let’s go for a walk.” John tells Sherlock.

“Why?” Sherlock frowns down at him.

“Sherlock, really?” John shakes his hip so that he jostles Sherlock. He opens his eyes wide, his ash blond eyebrows inch up towards his hairline.

For a few heartbeats, Sherlock does not move. John always waits for the bulb to turn on. In this case, it’s less like a single light bulb than a dark stadium flooded with blinding white light. He laughs when Sherlock actually blushes.

“Oh.” Through giggles, John rises up on his toes and kisses his genius. He pulls back and adjusts the collar of Sherlock’s coat then pats his arm.

“Guess that means he likes the jacket, then.”

“Sherlock, I believe both of them did.” John offers with another chuckle as they walk off down the pavement, arm-in-arm as Fitton’s tiny touches of nightlife slowly unfurl around them.


End file.
